My name is Maury Robertson and I was the most religious guy you’ll ever meet—but I’m recovering.

Two years ago, I resigned my seminary professorship and left the church I had pastored for over 20 years. You can check out the story here if you like.

Life after religion was scary and lonesome. My beliefs were shattered. Life was no longer defined by a religious routine. Old friends treated me like a missions project. I was forced to rethink everything.

This blog is a record of my working things out. I am in constant beta state. The last thing I want is to get you to believe what I believe. I do hope I can be useful in helping you discover what you believe. Love is the surest path to truth. Whatever you believe, I have room in my heart for you.

I grew up in the wheat fields of the Palouse, in Eastern Washington. I loved to traipse across the fields with my dog, Brute, and backpack in the Bitterroot mountains with my dad.

After high school, I majored in music and played french horn professionally with the Boise Philharmonic.

In 1986, I moved to San Francisco to attend Golden Gate Baptist Theological Seminary (now Gateway). I earned a Masters and a Ph.D., but the best thing I got out of these years was my wife, Julie.

In 1991, we moved to Yuba City, California where I pastored my first church. It was a disaster. After six months, it went through a split that tore friends and families apart. From one of the smoking remnants we started River Valley Christian Fellowship. This became the loving congregation I pastored for over 20 years.

While a pastor, I built a house, wrote articles for the local paper, fished the Feather River, made music, grew addicted to road biking, studied Biblical Greek, became a seminary professor, and had three kids.

In the spring of 2014, I resigned my church. In the fall of 2016, I resigned from seminary. I was dying for a genuine connection with God.

Julie and I now roam the country in our little fiberglass trailer, devoting our lives to Anchorpoint, a home for pilgrims and other lost souls who seek authentic Christian spirituality.

You might also enjoy my Curb Your Dogma Podcast where I also explore spiritual themes.


  1. Jacob Trotter on August 30, 2018 at 5:39 pm

    Hi Maury,

    I came across your book through interesting circumstances. While I have not read the entire book (it’s been put off until I’m relieved of school requirements :p), I already have a pretty direct question concerning the eternal nature of hell.

    From my understanding, you take the view that hell is merely a correctional tool used to make people better. However, Matthew 25:46 uses the term “eternal” twice referring to 2 separate destinies: “These will go away into eternal punishment, but the righteous into eternal life.”

    My question is this: How can we interpret the first use of the word (eternal) differently than the second?

    It would seem to me that the safest way to read this verse would be to interpret “eternal” with the same meaning both times. Either it means “unending” both times. Or it means “temporary” both times.

    I am curious to hear how you interpret the passage.


    • Maury on September 2, 2018 at 8:56 am

      Hi Jacob! Thanks for the excellent question. I do indeed address your question in the book but no problem. I get the pressure of school. Last thing you need is one more thing to read! 🙂

      In short, if αἰώνιον (translated “eternal”) is read as “of the coming age” in each instance, it makes sense. There is both life and punishment in the coming age. Like this:

      “These will go away into the punishment of the coming age (αιωνιον) but the righteous to the life of the coming age (αιωνιον).”

      To me, this squares nicely with descriptions of judgment in the Bible. If you want to listen to something rather than read, check out the podcast titled “Why I Love Hell.” It’s very much like the book.

      If you want to read a masterful treatment of the topic, check out George MacDonald’s (one of C.S. Lewis’ heroes) unfinished sermon titled “The Consuming Fire.” It’s AMAZING.

      Humbly too,

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